


Softly, Softly

by little_abyss



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Arguing, Canon-Typical Violence, Character Analysis, Complicated Relationships, Developing Relationship, Difficult Decisions, Established Relationship, Explicit Consent, Explicit Sexual Content, Flirting, M/M, Past Abuse, Politics, Rivalry, Social Issues, Sparring, Tevinter Imperium, Undecided Relationship(s)
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-07-07
Updated: 2017-07-07
Packaged: 2018-11-28 20:57:54
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 7,354
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11426070
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/little_abyss/pseuds/little_abyss
Summary: The Iron Bull isn't sure where he stands in Dorian's affections - isn't sure it matters, isn't sure how he feels about it either way.  Until one day, someone shows up at Skyhold... and everything changes.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [snarry_splitpea](https://archiveofourown.org/users/snarry_splitpea/gifts).



Dorian smirks and arches an eyebrow up at Bull.  He looks down at the hand on his leg, then slides it off, pulling on Bull’s pinky until the offending body part is removed.  He then grimaces, rubbing his fingers together as if he has touched something slightly grubby.  “Excuse me,” he says, “I believe you misplaced something.”

“Didn’t misplace nothing,” Bull smirks, raising his tankard to his mouth, “Just thought you might need a hand with those pants.”

“I have all the hands I need, thank you very much,”  Dorian purrs.  He’s been like this for two weeks, ever since they’d fucked for the first time - sly, flirtatious when Bull’s interest is elsewhere, but cooling rapidly when Bull shows any interest in Dorian himself.  This game of push and pull might get boring eventually, but for now, Bull’s content to play along.  He smiles at Dorian, inclining his head, remembering the slick of sweat on that perfect brow, the way Dorian had clung to him, fingers clawing into his shoulders, the pretty whimpering noises he’d made as he’d come.  He leans his elbow on the table, opens his mouth to suggest that perhaps Dorian might want to give  _ him _ a hand, when the door to the Herald’s Rest blows open, and two strangers enter along with a swirl of snow.

 

There is a brief moment of silence after the door slaps shut, and then the taller of the two cloaked figures laughs as he pushes off the deep cowl.  “A pub!” the man yells, and laughs again, “Fenris, even here at the end of the world, there is a pub.  Maker be praised!”

He stomps his snowy boots, and glances up, grinning at Bull.  “Hello!” the man calls across the room, and strides forward, hand outstretched.  “Always make friends with the biggest guy in the room first.  That’s my motto.  Name’s Hawke.  Though most people know me as...”

“The Champion of Kirkwall,” Bull says, smiling, but not getting up.  From what Leiliana had let slip - and Bull had no illusions that she hadn’t deliberately placed the information at his disposal - they’d been trying to hunt out the Champion for a while now.  He’d gone to ground with the elven mage, from what Varric had said, and wasn’t that a trick for a dwarf who had claimed no knowledge of the Champion’s whereabouts.  Bull makes a mental note to buy Varric a drink sometime, and extends his hand, clasping Hawke’s hand lightly in his own.  It engulfs the human’s, who looks wonderingly at their joined hands for a moment, before shouting laughter again.  

“That’s  _ wonderful _ ,” he says, “Fen, look!  His hands..!”

“Yes,” a droll voice says, and Bull looks at the smaller, slighter figure to Hawke’s left.  As he watches, the figure pushes off its own cowl, revealing an elf - his long, white hair plaited over one shoulder, bright white markings coursing down his chin.  Deep green eyes regard Bull for a moment, then an eyebrow rises.  “Shanedan,” the elf says quietly.

 

“Yeah,” Bull tells him, his voice low.  He regards the elf, with his neutral expression, and considers.  His voice is quiet, unobtrusive; the greeting clipped and clear with a slight Tevinter accent, skin and eyes the same shades he’d seen on Seheron.  An escaped slave, then.  His ears aren’t docked, so he can’t have been a pit slave, but the way his shoulders sit underneath the heavy cloak would indicate some kind of battle training.  And his stance - alert, ready.  Bodyguard once, perhaps; or maybe he’s just been on the run for a long time.  “I don’t go in for all that anymore,” Bull tells him, and the elf cocks his head slightly.

 

“You are the mercenary.”  It’s not a question.  Bull inclines his head and lets go of Hawke’s hand.  Dorian lunges at him, smiling, hand extended toward Hawke.  

“Champion,” he says brightly, as Hawke shakes his hand, beaming, “Welcome to Skyhold.  Not much in the way of luxury, perhaps, but I suppose anything is better than hard tack and watered ale at the roadside.  Especially in such woeful southern weather as this.  How remiss of me - I am Dorian of House Pavus, evil magister in residence.  Well… hardly evil.  More like easily lead, really.”  He flicks a glance at Bull and smirks again.

 

Bull looks at him and grins, sliding his hand around Dorian’s waist, feels Dorian tense.  “I wouldn’t say easily,” he chuckles, as Dorian shifts under his arm and snorts.  The elf narrows his eyes at them both, and Bull watches his jaw clench as his eyes rest on Dorian.  “Pavus,” he growls, his voice soft and deadly with threat.  Hawke looks at the elf, and clears his throat.  

“Uh… meet Fenris,” he says, his smile becoming brittle, his voice falsely cheery.  “He was coming south, I was coming south…” he laughs and shrugs, “You know how it is.  Always nice to travel with someone with wine.”

 

Dorian laughs, and though Fenris continues to gaze at him balefully, the tension lifts, just a little.  “I couldn’t agree more,” Dorian says, folding his arms over his chest and rocking backwards slightly on his heels.  Bull watches as his eyes flick to Fenris, still staring at him, and he sees a frown flit across Dorian’s features, then he clears his throat.  “Well,” Dorian smiles, “If you’ll excuse me.  Much to do.”

 

Bull snorts at the obvious lie as Dorian slides gracefully out from under his arm and saunters with his head held high toward the door.  When he opens the door, the wince at the wild, snowy wind which greets him is unmistakable - and then the door slams behind him and Dorian is gone.  Bull sighs internally, wondering if he’ll ever break down the walls that Dorian’s spent so long building, and then shrugs when he catches Krem’s ironic grin.  “Okay, boys!” Krem yells, still looking at Bull, “Next round’s on the new guy then!”

“Bloody Void!  You lot don’t mess around, do you?” Hawke laughs, and good-naturedly gestures toward the bartender.  His smile changes slightly as he looks at Fenris and puts his hand lightly on the elf’s shoulder, asking, “You want something?”  Although his voice is bright, Bull hears a species of concern under it - for a moment, he wonders if these two might have been lovers once, but discounts it almost immediately.  The concern is there, certainly but...  _ You know what they say about old dogs and new tricks, _ he tells himself sternly,  _ Don’t read more into it than might be there. _

 

Hawke grins and strides off toward the bar when Fenris nods at him.  The elf looks along the bench seats, clearly trying to find a place to sit.  Bull narrows his eyes - there is a space right in front of him, and then he puts two and two together.  The elf doesn’t want to sit with his back to the door.  He sniffs nonchalantly and gestures to the seat which Dorian had just vacated.  “Space here, if you want it?” he asks.

Fenris looks at him for a moment, sizing him up, then nods.  As he skirts the table, Bull watches him from the corner of his eye as he lifts his near empty tankard to his mouth.  Quietly, Fenris slides onto the bench beside him and looks toward the bar.  Bull smacks his lips, exhales noisily, and Fenris chuckles.  “Good, is it?” he asks.

“Yeah,” Bull says, grinning, “Nothing like a mouthful of maraas-lok to really get the circulation going.  Or stopping, depending on your constitution.” He laughs a little, and the elf smiles.

“Maraas-lok, here?  Do you brew it yourself?” he asks.  Bull shakes his head, and Fenris tells him, “I have not tasted maraas-lok in years.”  He sounds wistful enough to make Bull smile and raise an eyebrow.  Then he silently pushes his tankard toward Fenris.  

 

Fenris pauses, then puts his hand on the tankard.  He narrows his eyes at Bull, who shrugs wordlessly, and then Fenris raises the tankard to his mouth.  Bull waits for the inevitable splutter, the choking noise which always accompanies someone without a tolerance for maraas-lok taking their first sip.  He waits, listening to the sounds of the people all around them - Krem’s laughter, a group of visiting Orlesian nobles muttering darkly about ... _ absolument dégoûtant!  L'Inquisiteur ne peut..! _ , and it sounds like there might be a bar-fight about to happen between an ex-Templar and one of the rebel mages - then Fenris has put the tankard down again.  Bull looks at him, watching as he nods slowly, his expression thoughtful.  Then their eyes meet, and Fenris tells him, “Yes.  Good.”

 

Bull stares at him, this slight creature, his white tattoos standing starkly against the deep brown of his skin, then bellows laughter.  It seems to echo through the space as all eyes turn to the source of the noise and the voices quiet for just a second - then Fenris blinks, smiles slightly and looks away again.  The noise resumes, life resumes… but something has changed.  Bull knows it.


	2. Chapter 2

“No, no,  _ no _ ,” Dorian says loudly, and makes an imperious wave of his hand.  “I said the  _ teak _ , not the  _ oak _ .  Buffoons,” he mutters caustically, glaring at the two men struggling under the weight of the bookshelf.  Bull looks at him sidelong from where he leans against the balustrade and smirks.  

“C’mon, Dorian,” he says, “You really need that..?”

“Yes,” Dorian tells him, putting his hands on his hips and turning on the balls of his feet, turning away from the window to look at Bull.  He raises his chin and states, “It simply must be moved.  The light is bad enough in here, and Helisma is straining her eyes as it is.  Honestly, if they gave us half the space for research as Vivienne seems to have for… for lounging in, I don’t...” He stutters out mid-flow and drops his hands, sighing harshly.  “No.  That’s unfair of me.  Vivienne does as much as any of us here.  I just… I’m not…”  He swallows, and looks at Bull for a moment, then drops his eyes.  “I’m not accustomed to feeling this… this useless, actually.”  He smiles, bright and brittle, and folds his arms over his chest.  Bull smiles gently, and stands up straight.  

 

“I’ll take it from here, boys,” he says, and the two men look at him gratefully as they straighten, rubbing their hands and pushing their knuckles deep into their backs.  Bull catches a mutter of “...fucking slavers…” as they leave, and though he watches Dorian carefully for a reaction, it would seem he has not heard.  Bull considers the bookshelf, mindful of Dorian’s eyes on him.  It is full of old leather-bound tomes; it smells of age and rot and mice and knowledge.  He runs a hand over the worn-smooth wood, feeling the gentle ululations of the grain beneath his palm, and examines it carefully.  “Where’d you want it?” he asks gruffly, and Dorian makes a gesture to the far wall - a distance of about five human paces.  Bull nods, bends at the knees a little, and hefts the shelf entire, dimly aware of the muscles in his back, in his biceps and neck, the strain of them all moving as he takes the weight of the full bookshelf in his arms.  Dorian’s gaze is more weight than the shelf, but Bull carries it - no, more than that, he  _ relishes _ it, enjoys the performance, the thought of what Dorian might be imagining.  

 

Slowly, he sets the bookshelf down in its appointed destination, and turns, beaming at Dorian, who appears to be looking at his nails.  Bull smirks - he is not fooled.  “That alright?” he asks softly, and Dorian looks up, eyebrow arched, smiling politely.  Ah, but there it is - that bright shine in his eye, the heat.  “Fine,” Dorian says, his tone bored, but there is a shift and a set of his hips, the way in which he arches his neck away from Bull, exposing the length of it, the way one hand strays toward his mouth, touches his lip gently.  “Thank you,” he says lightly, still not looking at Bull, who smiles.  

“Sure,” he says, and the smile broadens, “Anytime you need some muscle, you know who to call.”

“Ugh,” Dorian says, and rolls his eyes before gazing balefully back in Bull’s direction, “I’m  _ sure _ I wouldn’t wait on that call, if I were you.”

“Yeah, yeah,” Bull laughs, and approaches Dorian, raking his gaze over all that firm flesh, all the flash and fire and the prickly attitude which still feels like a mask to him, a mask over who it is that Dorian wants to be, who he could be given the right circumstances.  “I mean it.  Anytime.”

 

“Do you mind?” Dorian asks, and goes back to nonchalantly studying his nails.  “I have things to do.   _ Important  _ things.  Go… swing an axe at something, would you?”

“You’d like that?” Bull murmurs, taking another step forward, leaning his hip against the balustrade next to Dorian, arms folded over his chest.  He keeps his tone low, casual - they could be talking about anything.  “You’d like me to go do some sparring in the yard?  Work so hard the sweat runs in rivulets down my chest?  Smash my taam-kaas into the thick body of one of those straw men so hard all its guts come spilling out?  I can be a brute, you know.”  He leans closer, just for a moment, and whispers in Dorian’s ear, “If that’s what you think you want.”

Dorian gasps, then exhales quickly.  He looks at Bull for a moment - and the gaze is utterly naked, heavy with pure, unbridled lust.  Then he swallows.  “Maybe,” he mutters, then seems to collect himself rapidly.  “Maybe not,” he announces, then sighs at Bull crossly and gets up from where he leans.  “Go and do whatever it is that you do, Bull.  But kindly - go do it somewhere else?”

 

Bull snorts.  He leans off the railing and nods at Dorian, unfolding his arms, and then inclines his head.  “Sure, Dorian.  Whatever you want.”  He turns, taking the stairs two at a time, feeling the confusion in the back of his mind over what he wants, over what  _ Dorian _ wants.  Bull sighs.

 

-|||-

 

The yard is full of slush, and Bull’s boots slide in the mud that coats the great stone steps leading up to the main keep.  He grimaces, concentrating his gaze a few feet ahead of himself.  From where he is, he can hear the clash of steel-on-steel, Krem’s voice raised in a shout of laughter, and the yelling of a not-inconsiderable crowd.  When he reaches the bottom of the stairs, Bull looks up, sees the ring of people around the edges of the sparring yard.  He sees the flash of a huge war-hammer and grins - Krem is fighting someone.   _ Hope you’re keeping your guard up for once kid, _ he thinks, and laughs when he hears Krem shout some Tevene swearword.  He approaches the ring of people.

 

They part for him, though he can easily see over all their heads.  The elf, it is the elf who drank the maraas-lok with him last night - here he is moving with a terrifying grace over the mud toward Krem, the blunted edge of a weighted greatsword in his hands.  No.   _ Shit _ , Bull thinks, that’s not a practice sword - that’s a real-life weapon he’s using, just as Krem is using his own war-hammer.  Something in Bull twists, he wants to call out, stop the fight, but he knows he can’t, knows he has to trust Krem not to do anything too fucking stupid.  But Koslun’s Balls, that elf can move - he shifts, fluid as water, flowing around Krem’s swing, the pitch of it just beyond a perfect balance, and as Krem stumbles forward very slightly, the elf moves around him - holy shit!  How did he do that? - curls one bare foot around Krem’s ankle and yanks backwards.

 

The crowd noise arcs into a cry of astonishment, even as Krem hits the mud, his eyes wide, his war-hammer preceding him to the earth with a flat sucking noise.  The elf follows him down, even as the crowd noise pitches, a breath too late - his sword clutched with one hand on the hilt, one hand on the blade, knees on either side of Krem’s ribs, the blade comes down…

 

In three steps, Bull is there.  He yanks the elf backward by the back of his armour, the mist descending over his eyes.  “Krem!” he yells, and shakes the elf, who kicks at him, catching him in the crest of the thigh.  Bull turns him, still holding him mid-air by the scruff of the neck, and they stare at each other for a long moment, before Fenris starts to laugh.  Bull snorts, hears Krem join in and before he knows it he is laughing himself.  “Next time you want a fight,” he tells the two of them as he puts Fenris gently back on the ground, “You tell me what you’re doing first, alright?”

“Yes, mother,” Krem quips, then rolls over.  Fenris chuckles, holds out a hand to him and pulls him to his feet.  

 

“I look like a Tamrassan to you?  Get out of here,” Bull says, mock sternly, and rubs his chest.  “Better yet, buy me a drink.  I think you two took years off my life with that little display.”

“Little display?” Krem laughs, putting his hands on his hips as the crowd disburses.  “You been hanging around that Altus again?”

 

There is a brief moment of quiet as Bull studies Fenris.  The bright humour of a moment before is utterly gone now.  Instead, he looks at Bull appraisingly, then to Krem.  “It is true then?” he asks softly, “Altii?  I thought I must surely be imagining things.”

Krem shakes his head, begins walking toward the Herald’s Rest, even covered in mud and sweat as he is.  Bull hesitates a moment, then trails along behind them, listening carefully.  

“Yeah, but there’s only one.  Just Dorian.” Krem tells Fenris, “Dorian of House Pavus.  He’s not so bad.  I mean, he’s a bit of a whiner, and ooh-la-la like you wouldn’t…”

“Not so bad,” Fenris snarls quietly, and shakes his head.  Krem looks at him, lips pursed, then shakes his head at Bull slightly, obviously seeing the question in his gaze.  Fenris seems to recede inward, Bull watching his fists clench and his eyes go dark as they focus on some internal consideration.  Then the elf seems to shake himself out of it and tells them, “Let us drink to victory then.  My victory, that is.” He smirks at Krem and tells him, “Which means you are buying.”

 

“Oh, what?” Krem moans, throwing his hands wide in a gesture of irritation.  Fenris and Bull laugh together, and Bull looks at the elf for a moment.  Fenris returns his gaze, and just for an instant, there is something more there - that same feeling of imminent change.  Fenris’ smile widens, and he lowers his head without lowering his eyes, making the gesture both coy and interested.  Bull smirks in return, shifts slightly and then cuts his eyes in Krem’s direction.  Fenris nods, and together they follow the human in the direction of the Herald’s Rest.


	3. Chapter 3

Late and later still.  The little tavern is full to bursting, loud with noise and laughter.  “It was never in doubt,” Fenris says loudly, and snorts a laugh at Krem’s petulant expression, “It was…”

“Yeah, yeah,” Krem tells him as Dalish brays laughter, “You wanna put your money where your mouth is on a re-match, then I’m game.”

“Not until you learn to block,” Fenris says, “Why you persist with that ridiculous hammer when you’d be better served with a lighter weapon is…”

But Bull finds he is not listening anymore.  Instead, he is watching the play of the dim barroom light ripple in the shine of Fenris’ hair, thinking of the way that the elf had moved so fluidly in the sparring ring.  Damn, he was  _ fast _ , almost as fast as Dorian when he did that weird stepping-through-time shit.  Bull finds himself smirking a little at that, then his mouth twists in concern.  He hasn’t seen Dorian this afternoon, and he’s usually in the Rest by now.   He frowns around the room, peering into the dimness.  Where could he be?   _ Probably still up with his books _ , Bull thinks, rubbing his chest almost unconsciously at the weighted feeling which seems to have nestled there suddenly.  He shrugs it off, turns back around to see that Fenris is looking at him, a strange, twisted smile on his face.  Bull narrows his eye and before he can think better of it, asks, “What?”

 

Fenris is silent.  He studies Bull for a long minute as the conversation flows around them, then jerks his head quickly toward the stairs and cants his head as if asking something.  Then the door to the Rest swings open, and Bull’s gaze cuts momentarily to the person who has entered.  He wonders at the guilt which slides immediately in his stomach when he sees who it is - Dorian.

Bull’s eyes go back to Fenris, who he sees is now looking at the door as well.  Face turned on an oblique angle to Bull, he cannot see Fenris’ facial expression - but from the sudden hunch of his shoulders and the way his fist tightens around the tankard, Bull cannot imagine it is good.  

  
  


Bull takes a deep breath, and Fenris looks away.  He rises quickly, and Krem turns, eyes widening as he says, “Hey, you’re not going already, are you?”

“Indeed I am,” Fenris tells him, “I am not as young as I used to be.  Plus I have heard this story before.”  He smirks at Krem, who smiles at him and goes back to listening.  “Goodnight,” Fenris tells the table who yell their goodnights back to him; Bull feels a light hand on his shoulder, the merest brush of skin on skin, then Fenris is gone.

 

Here it is - the feeling that’s been kindling in his chest all week, that feeling of terminus, of imminent change, it peaks within Bull, and he frowns.  Does Fenris want him to follow?  He wants  _ something _ , Bull knows that much.  He knows that Fenris seems like someone with a single-minded nature, someone who knows their own mind with a clarity which sometimes frightens other people.  Not him though.  He finds it reassuring, in an odd way.  That focus; that sense of purpose.  Vaguely, he wonders if Fenris had had many dealings with the Qun since his encounters with the Arishok alongside Hawke.  “Hey,” he says quietly to Krem, who looks over his shoulder at him, sees the look on his face and turns around fully to face him, “If you see Dorian, tell him… I’ll see him tomorrow.  Alright?”

That hesitation in his voice.  Fuck.  Bull feels as if he’s given himself away at that, feels a twist of disappointment in his guts.  But Krem nods readily enough, so Bull gets up and moves out from behind the table.  Slowly, he treds over to the stairs and mounts them, taking two at a time.

 

The noise isn’t quite so overwhelming up here.  Bull walks the corridor quietly, but without hushing his footfalls - he wants Fenris to hear him coming.  This isn’t a barracks; there are only four rooms up here, one of which is Bull’s own.  He wonders if that is where he should head; if he should pursue Dorian, if Dorian wants to be chased.  Does Bull want to chase him?  There’s no denying he finds Fenris attractive, in such utterly different ways as to make each desire appealing in and of itself.  With Dorian, there is potential for a longer game; for something which could be satisfying in the manner of a siege, well planned and executed with precision.  With Fenris, there is no telling when he will leave.  He has already hinted that he will go before the Champion returns, making any potential dalliance - if indeed that is what Fenris wants - a short, sharp incident, a skirmish.  Bull inhales, walks deliberately past his own door to the one at the end of the corridor, and turns, ready to knock.

 

The door is partly open.  Bull raises his fist, meaning to knock gently, but the sight which greets him gives him pause.  Fenris stands before him, bare to the waist, his torso tipped forward, the sound of dripping water sounding softly from the room.  As Bull watches, Fenris finishes wringing out the rag he is using, and wipes it gingerly over his shoulder.  He touches himself with great reservation, and from the look on his face in profile, disdains every moment.  Bull frowns slightly, wondering, then knocks.

 

“Fenris,” he says quietly, staring at the wood grain of the door jamb, “It’s Bull.  Just wanted to say goodnight.”

The door swings open fully, and Fenris stands there.  “If you wanted to say goodnight,” he says slowly, “You would have said it already.”  His brilliant green eyes are luminous in the low light, and the smallest smile plays about his lips.  There is a moment of quiet, then Fenris steps aside slightly, opening the door wider.  He looks at Bull, arches one eyebrow, then turns, walking back into the room.  Bull narrows his eyes, thinking, then follows him inside.

 

The small fire burning in the grate crackles.  Fenris moves silently around the room, taking a thin cotton shirt from the edge of the bed and throwing it over his shoulders.  “Sit,” he says as he thrusts an arm through the sleeve, using the end of the motion to gesture to the bed.  Bull watches the elf as he turns to stir the fire.  He’s taller than any elf Bull’s ever met, his hair so white it shines like silver in the low golden-red light.  Fenris chuckles, turns his head slightly and asks, “Better at giving orders than taking them, are we?”

 

Bull laughs, low in his throat.  “Done my time takin’ orders,” he murmurs, “Didn’t like where it got me.”

Fenris snorts.  “From what I hear,” he says quietly, “You are not Tal-Vashoth.  You are Hissrad; part of the Ben Hassrath.  More dangerous than any branch of the Aritam - you are the re-educators, the silencers, the keepers of illusion.”  He looks at Bull steadily, then shrugs.  “That is what I hear.”

“You hear a lot,” Bull growls, suddenly on edge for no easily discernable reason.  “From what  _ I _ hear, you got those lyrium brands _ and _ the chip on your shoulder in the same place - experimented on by a Magister.  You escaped him three times; the last time, you killed him.  You stayed with the Champion long enough to repay your blood debt to him.  Now you’re back with him, sure, but it’s  _ still _ about obligation - still  _ should _ over  _ want  _ or  _ need _ .  That about right?”

 

Briefly, Fenris smiles, and slowly shakes his head.  “That is not what you  _ hear _ ,” he says scornfully, “That is what you  _ read. _  Varric’s book is full of that trite nonsense.  The truth is vastly more complex.”

Bull grunts, shifts from foot to foot and feels a smile creep over his features.  “Sure,” he says finally, “So?  You gonna tell the real story?”

Fenris’ smile grows, and he lowers his eyes.  “ _ Tell me the truth,  _ asks the keeper of illusions.”  He is silent for a moment, then raises his eyes, meeting Bull’s gaze as he asks, “That Altus.  Tell me of him instead.  What brings him here?”

“You wanna know about Dorian,” Bull counters, “Ask him yourself.”

 

Fenris only looks at him.  Bull stares back - not a challenge, they’re not challenging each other, but this conversation has all the indications of a test, a feeling out.  He allows nothing to cross his features, no show of emotion at all.  Finally, Fenris sighs.  “I had been lead to believe you were close.  Are you really so close with him that you would protect him?  That you would give up so much for him?”

Bull snorts, smirking, “I’m not givin’ up anything.  Dorian’s only into me because, to him, I’m… exotic.  It’s a good time, not a long time.”  _ It hurts,  _ he thinks, puzzled at himself,  _ it hurts to say it, why does it hurt so much? _  He inhales, gazing at Fenris, and shrugs.  “I’m what he needs right now.  But what I wanna know is, why do you wanna know about Dorian?”

 

“I do not.  Not really,” Fenris states coldly, “I know all I need to about him.  Pampered childhood, cloistered youth, indolent young adulthood; all made possible on the backs of slaves.  His is the mouth the traders feed.  His is the loudest voice when it comes to espousing their own value; the quickest hand when it comes time to take, the tightest grip when it seems they will lose anything which confers on them power, or status.  You are right.  I do not want to know about him.  I wanted to know how someone such as yourself could stand to spend so long in the company of one such as him, when you have so much more to offer?”

Bull blinks.  Fenris’ posture has changed as he has been giving this diatribe; he stands with his shoulders hunched, his hands balled into fists at his side, his eyes blazing.  As Bull looks at him, all the force seems to wither within the elf, and he looks at the floor.  “I apologise,” he murmurs, his voice soft.  “I meant only… from my observations, you are well-loved, decisive, charming.  You have a disciplined mind - you respect people’s boundaries.  It does not seem to me that he offers you the same.”

 

Bull takes a deep, quiet breath.  “Yeah?” he asks quietly, and smiles sadly.  “I don’t know about all that.  I do know that it’s gettin’ late, and I got letters to write.  So.  Goodnight, Fenris.  Next time you wanna try killin’ my lieutenant, lemme know first, huh?”

Fenris nods, looking up.  Bull sees the corner of his mouth twitch, though his eyes look a little worried.  “I will try again tomorrow afternoon.  I will not try very hard, if that is any consolation.”

Bull chuckles.  “Yeah well.  We already got a half-blind guy, so…”  He shrugs and turns, making for the door.  When he reaches it, he almost turns back - almost hesitates.  The want is gone in a moment, and Bull moves beyond the threshold, closing the door to Fenris’ room softly behind him, feeling even more confused than before.

 

-|||-

 

The sun shimmers on the remaining snow, and Bull laughs.  “Yeah, yeah,” he tells Krem, “Koslun’s Balls, kid, if I gotta tell you one more time about blocking...”

“Shut up,” Krem groans, shaking his head.  He hefts his hammer again, puts it over his shoulder and grins up at Bull.  “Dorian asked about you last night.”

“Yeah?” Bull says, eyes still on his own axe.  The edge is blunted - he guesses maybe he needs to talk to the Inquisitor about requisitioning something better than dawnstone.  It might be pretty to look at, but it sure ain’t functioning that well, not against dragons anyway.  He sighs, raises his eyebrows and glances at Krem.  “Did he want me for something?”

“The usual, I’d guess,” Krem chuckles, then arches one eyebrow, “You should have seen his jaw drop when I told him you were with Fenris.  Incidentally, is Fenris gonna be walking funny today?  Because I’m sure I can use that.”

 

Bull snorts and shakes his head.  “Nah,” he says, then looks up to wink at Krem.  “You know, people do like to talk with me too.  It’s not all about fucking.”

“Sure,” Krem laughs, rolling his eyes.  “I’ll see you later, Chief.  Anything you need?”

“Nah,” Bull tells him, and grins.  “Thanks.  I’ll check in with you after I talk to the Commander.”

Krem nods, hefts his hammer over his shoulder and walks away.  Bull watches him go.  He can’t help smiling at the swagger the kid’s adopted; it suits him.  Bull sighs through his nose and looks back down at the axe.  There are two bad knicks in the blade - it’ll have to either be refashioned entirely, or scrapped.  Bull frowns at it again, then purses his lips, thinking for a moment.  And then he rises, wondering if he’ll catch Harritt in the undercroft.

 

-|||-

 

That went better than expected.  The smith was in a good mood today; Bull will have his axe back by the end of the week.  It’s good to know the man can see the benefit in keeping waste to a minimum - good that he knows the value of keeping a well-worn haft rather than breaking in a new weapon.  That’s something the Boss could stand to know about; all this new shit all the time is kind of disconcerting.   _ Meraad astaarit, meraad itwasit, aban aqun, _ he thinks, and scratches his forearm.  From a dim doorway ahead of him, one that comes from the upper reaches of the keep’s towers into the main hall, comes a figure, clutching a book tightly to its chest.  Bull stops, and the figure looks at him and hesitates.  “Oh,” Dorian says, “Bull.  I was… I missed you last night.”  He laughs tensely, raises his chin, “That is to say, I was looking for you, and Cremisius informed me that you were… indisposed.”

“Yeah,” Bull says.  For a moment, there is silence between the two of them, and then there is a loud bang from the party of dwarven stonemasons, which is followed by a string of what Bull can only assume is dwarven swearing.  He hears Varric’s laughter, and looks at Dorian in time to see a strange expression on his face - a wry, twisted grin graces his lips, though his eyes are concerned.  Bull frowns.  “Hey,” he says, “Do you…”

“Perhaps you would join me?” Dorian interrupts, arching his neck a little and narrowing his eyes, “Of course, if you don’t have anything better to do.  Or…”  But he bites his lips together and is silent once more.  They stare at each other, then Dorian smiles slightly.  “Don’t keep me in suspense, oaf,” he says softly, and Bull smiles.

 

“Yeah,” he nods, and Dorian’s smile shifts, becomes smug for an instant before that worried expression crosses his face again - like a cloud over the sun.  Bull watches it, wondering, then Dorian smirks at him.  “Well?”

Bull nods, returns the smirk, and Dorian laughs, hugs his book a little tighter to his chest and turns, leading the way out of the great hall and into the sunlight.

 

-|||-

 

 

“Slow down,” Bull tells him, one hand on Dorian’s thigh.  The muscles shiver under his palm, and he strokes the slick skin.  Dorian gasps, grits his teeth and shakes his head.  Bull arches an eyebrow and moves both hands up to Dorian’s hips, arresting his movement.

“I said  _ slow down _ ,” he growls.  Koslun’s Balls, Dorian’s so fucking tight around the head of his cock, he’s just… he’s perfect, Bull can still taste him in his mouth, and the way he can wrap both hands completely around Dorian’s waist is… it’s compelling.  He doesn’t want Dorian to slow down.  Oh, he knows he  _ should _ \- that’s what Dorian needs, of course, slow and intimate, take him apart gently with soft words and softer touches, build him up, break him down, and then do it all over again - but Dorian is determined to push.  He’s not ready for what he needs just yet… or perhaps Bull isn’t ready to give that to him.  But either way, if he keeps this up, he’s gonna do them both a mischief.

 

Dorian lifts his chin, his mouth open just a little.  “I thought you said you could be a beast, if that was what I wanted?” he asks, and rolls his hips forward a little, attempting to sink down further onto Bull’s cock.  “Don’t you want that?” he pants, “I’ll give you whatever you want, Bull.  I’ll be your pretty little thing, tie me up if you like, I’ve heard that’s what you like, isn’t it?  Or perhaps you’d… oh,  _ kaffas _ , uh, perhaps you’d like  _ me _ to act the role?  You… oh, Maker,”  Dorian huffs out a breath, his head hanging forward for a moment, then grins as his hands tighten on Bull’s chest, nails digging into his skin.  He takes a moment, then murmurs, “You could make me your whore.”

 

_ At what price? _ Bull thinks, and wonders at himself.  He does not speak - only reaches out, takes the small jar of slick and digs his fingers into it.  “You talk a lot,” he murmurs, then thrusts his hand between Dorian’s legs, wiping slick onto his cock, circling the rim of Dorian’s ass with the stumps of his maimed fingers.  Bull smiles up at him as Dorian shudders in response.  “You couldn’t give me what I need.”

And with that, Dorian goes suddenly still as stone.  His jaw works; Bull sees his nostrils flare and his eyes narrow.  “Really?” Dorian finally asks coldly, “And here I was thinking that, oh, I don’t know, taking this small tree you have the nerve to call a cock into my body was enou…”

Bull closes his eyes and slowly pushes himself onto his elbows, and Dorian stops talking.  Neither of them move for a moment, and then Bull pushes himself up further, moving his hands quickly up to Dorian’s waist to support him, stop him rocking backward.  “You’re not ready,” he mutters, “And I don’t think I’m ready to ask.  Dunno if I’ll ever be ready.  So, hey - let’s not worry about  _ need _ right now, okay?”  Bull takes a breath, opens his eyes and shifts so that he is supporting Dorian’s weight chiefly in his arms and on the tops of his thighs; slowly, infintessimally slowly, he allows Dorian’s weight to redistribute, so that he sinks down further onto Bull’s slicked cock.  “This alright?” he asks, and Dorian closes his eyes and groans.

“Yes,” he breathes, “Oh Maker, yes, yes, it’s alright.  Just…  _ kaffas _ , Bull, don’t let me go, oh, it… it feels good.  Yes.  It’s alright.”

 

Afterward, when Bull is almost asleep, he hears Dorian mutter something from beside him.  He blinks himself awake, shifting in the bed so that he can see Dorian’s face.  His head is cushioned on one arm; as Bull watches, Dorian blinks at him lazily, then smiles, raising a hand to smooth his moustache, then clears his throat quietly.  “Yes?” he asks.

“Thought I heard you say something,” Bull tells him - it’s not a question, it’s more of a… test, he supposes.   _ What are you testing for _ , he asks himself, watching the way that Dorian’s gaze goes suddenly furtive, how his smile changes, becomes tense.  Dorian snorts a laugh through his nose, then pushes himself off the mattress, moving quickly from supine to sitting on his haunches.  He stretches languidly, his body shining in the low light of the fire, and he smirks at Bull.  “Nothing,” he says blithely, “Just… wondering aloud.”

“Yeah?” Bull asks.  There’s something here, if only he could put his finger on it.  “What about?”

 

“That elf,” Dorian tells him, now curling a hand up and appearing to inspect his nails.  “The one Cremissius was sparring with the other day.  The one who came in with the Champion.  You know the one.”  A brief moment of tension where Dorian’s nostrils flare very slightly, then he arches an eyebrow and without raising his eyes asks, “Have you fucked him yet?”

 

Bull narrows his eye.  “No,” he replies quietly.  “We’ve talked a couple of times.  He seems…”

“I’m sure he does,” Dorian says; and now his voice is conversational, his smile almost beatific.  “I’m sure he seems  _ so _ fascinating to you.  He’s rather brilliant to watch, isn’t he?  He wields a sword like he was born with one in his hand.  And I hear he hates magic.  So there’s that.”

“Dorian, what are…” 

“Nothing, nothing at all,” Dorian smiles, turning his hand over and extending the fingers.  “That’s what they teach you though, isn’t it?  Goodness, the stories we hear back home; obviously, the South is bad, positively  _ barbarian _ … ah, but the people of the Qun,  _ such _ a deep hatred for mages, for magic.”  Dorian’s grey eyes look up piercingly, and suddenly his voice is vicious, “For people like me.”

 

Bull is silent.  He waits, wondering what has caused this tirade.  As he wonders, he studies Dorian- the tense, humourless smile, the hunch of his shoulders, the forced casualness of his tone.   There’s not much he cannot figure out - or at least surmise - from body language alone, and Dorian is an easy study.  Bull narrows his eye again, cocks his head and says softly, “Are you jealous?”

“No,” Dorian states firmly, scowling.  “Why on earth would I be jealous?  Jealous of what? You can fuck whomever you like.  I just… I just didn’t realise that you would consider… that, with someone so…”  He clenches his jaw, the words held back behind his teeth.  Bull waits on him again.  Finally, Dorian sighs.  “I don’t know,” he says softly, his shoulders falling, the fire in his gaze all dying.  “I haven’t summoned the courage to speak to him.  I wanted to - I still want to.  But…”  He smiles, rather ironically, and shrugs.  “I pretend to wear my pariah status proudly.  But, as pathetic as it seems, all I want is… all I want is to be let in.  I just… I just want it to be easy.  It’s always been easy for me - I’m going to make a leap and suggest that you knew that already, or at least had guessed at it.  Poor little rich boy.”  He sighs, laughs quietly and shakes his head.  

 

And with that, Dorian shifts uncomfortably on the bed and smiles, putting his chin up, squaring his shoulders.  “Goodness, all this confession is rather wearing.  I do apologise.  Give me a moment to straighten myself and I’ll be out of your… horns, I suppose.”  The smile is beautiful, Bull thinks sadly - but it’s a mirror reflecting outward, shining as armour shines in the light of the sun.  He tries to smile in return, but only manages a grimace.   “Dorian,” he growls as Dorian shifts himself off the bed.  There is a pause in Dorian’s movements, just the most fleeting of moments, and then he shakes his head.  “Please,” he mutters, “Please don’t make this hard.  I… I have to go.”

 

Bull nods and says nothing.  He sits up properly, watching for a moment as Dorian first wipes the worst of the sweat from his body, and then begins to get dressed.  Then he sighs quietly and picks up a nearby book, opening it at random.  The words swim before his eyes for a moment, then he laughs when he realises the book is in Tevene.  “This yours?” he asks and Dorian looks up from his buckles.

“Yes,” he says after a brief pause.  “It’s a tretise on advanced lyrium poisoning.  The research was conducted…” he shakes his head and makes a face, “But what do you care?”

“Hey,” Bull says, “You make shit like that sound interesting.  You don’t wanna tell me, that’s up to you.  But don’t not tell me just ‘cause you assume I can’t understand it.”

 

Dorian scoffs and raises an eyebrow.  “Don’t  _ pretend  _ to be interested just because you assume that will spare my feelings,” he says, sounding irritated.  He scowls and begins to do up his buckles again.  Bull frowns a little, looks back down at the book briefly, then closes it gently.

 

He could keep Dorian here; he could worm whatever it is that’s eating him out of him.  It wouldn’t be hard - Dorian almost wants to tell him, he can feel it.  But that word, that  _ almost,  _ it  grates on him.  For some reason, he doesn’t want to take something that Dorian won’t give.  So he puts the book gently on the end of the bed and folds his hands in his lap instead, watching silently as Dorian finishes dressing and picks up the book.  He leaves the room without looking at Bull.


End file.
